As December is to May
by TeacherTeacher
Summary: Mary/Carson ship. Mary is revealed to have developed romantic feelings towards the enigmatic Charles Carson. They engage in an illicit affair, which Mary attempts to conceal via entangling herself with Kemal Pamuk, much to Carson's disgust.
1. Chapter 1

Lady Mary's eyes were red-rimmed and her skin uncharacteristically blotchy as she nursed a crystal goblet of red wine. A gentle rapping on the door of the library made her jerk upright with a start, trying to arrange her dress more artfully around herself.

"Madam-?" The mellow, dignified voice was instantly recognisable to her and she relaxed. Not Matthew. It wasn't Matthew. She waited for him to approach her, as she knew he would. He was dependable as clockwork.

The vicious rumours circulating about her affair with the Turk were in some ways, a relief. Having pre-marital relations with a young, wealthy, handsome foreigner may have caused a scandal, but in a way which was universally understandable to the confines of at least the younger generation of polite society. In a world where women lacked power, lacked choices, lacked freedom, a discreet choice to experience fleeting pleasure with an exciting, daring man was tempting to all of the young ladies. But no one would understand, or sympathise, with the real situation.

He had always been there for her, a shoulder to cry on, a champion of her ability. The boundaries between mistress and servant had always been blurred, from the raucous games of tennis in the park that they had played together to the secret midnight feasts in the servant's quarters when Mary managed to escape the German governess. As she matured, and her form lengthened and formed the soft curves of womanhood, she had begun to desire more from him. More than a mistress should from a servant, more than Mary had ever wanted from any man. When she was seventeen, she had found the courage to bring her lips to his in a quiet moment for the first time. Her heart had raced like a skittish dear through a forest as she closed in on him, expecting rebuke. His eyes betrayed his surprise, though he was motionless and held his ground; did not retreat.

"Lady Mary, I—" His words of protest were silenced as her faltering fingers found the back of his head, and she pulled him in again.

From that first encounter, it was inevitable that they became lovers. His words of protest were readily silenced by the enthusiasm of her caresses; after all, the Head Butler was still a man. A more discreet and unexpectedly proficient lover Mary could have never wanted. Carson had always memorised the minutia of the movements of the household as rote, and they easily found the opportunity on a daily basis to succumb to their pleasures. It was always Mary who was the aggressor; though Carson was a gentle, willing, and even skillful, participant, he was doubly aware of his position and the dangers that they faced. When the opportunity of the Turk had presented itself, Mary was relieved. It provided a most opportune excuse for what was swiftly becoming a growing problem. When Carson learned of what had happened—as he learned of all the comings and goings of the household—he had been furious. His cheeks grew motley red, and he clenched and unclenched his fists in barely-controlled rage.

"Lady Mary—how could you—he was so far beneath your dignity, your condescension!" He buried his head in his hands.

Mary chuckled sardonically. "And you're not?" This cut deeply, and she regretted it instantly. Carson turned to her, with tired, sad eyes. Mary did not know that he had been awake most of the night with a sick footman. Mary did not know that he himself had been off his food for several days. She was a legacy of her class; though well-meaning, she was largely ignorant of life downstairs. And now it seemed that she meant to supplant him with a superior man; to give her affections, that Carson had dared to presume that he had won, wantonly to another. He wanted to shout at her, to shake her out of her senses- but he could not. He was a Lady, and he was a nobody. He turned coldly to leave the room, but she frantically clutched at his black cuff.

"Carson, I…" She tried desperately to find the words to explain her position, but could not locate them. To speak of them, to a man, to a member of the staff, seemed insurmountable. "I am with child,"

He looked up at her then, daring to hope that what Mary had just said was some kind of feverish nightmare. "Do you mean, with my child?"

Mary laughed, a terrible hollow sound. "Why do you think that I had to seize upon Pamuk? To give it the thinnest veneer of respectability!" She slammed her fist on upon a small side table, causing it to give a great judder. "I didn't expect him to die!" Her slender form reverberated with sobs, and instantly Carson adopted his well-practiced protective mode. His arms flew, almost unbidden, around her, and pulled her tightly to him. With a more thorough examination, he could perceive an increased fullness to her breasts; a newfound softness in her stomach. His heart fell to his polished loafers. To think that Mary had thought that a pre-marital affair with that foreign fop was preferable to acknowledging that the child was his. Though his station was certainly inferior, he had served at Downton for so many years that he was well-respected by both the village and the family. With Mary's support, perhaps her disgrace need not be too complete. They could leave Downton and remove to a comfortable townhouse in the village. Surely, Mary would not be entirely disowned and disgraced by this. The child would be raised as a Carson, rather than a Crawley, but stranger things had happened.

Immediately, he fell to his knees.

"Lady Mary, you must marry me at once!" His heart sank when he perceived that familiar, obstinate look begin to form upon her face.

"Carson, I think you forget yourself—" She began. Instantly, he was at his feet, all traces of servitude removed from his visage.

"Yes, I did forget myself! I forgot my years of service, and training, and dignity, and Christian morality; my loyalty to your father, and succumbed to sin! But we must think of the child!" He pleaded. "Lady Mary, I know that I am unworthy even to grovel at your feet, but this has happened! We cannot bury our heads in the sand about this," He checked himself when he saw the soft tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "Lady Mary, I have always loved you. I loved you as a daughter for so many years—you know that. Now, I have betrayed my position, violated every ethic—"

Mary interrupted angrily. "And what part do I have to play in this morality tale of yours? For years now, I sought out every embrace, lay in my virgin bed dreaming of your caresses, tried to plan a way to make you want me, make you love me—"

Carson chuckled. "You could do that as surely as the sun rises in the east every morning by just breathing, Milady. 'Twas hardly a difficult position with you being so young and beautiful, and me being- well, never mind. I should have refused; I should have known better. You are from fertile stock, after all," Here, he implied reference to her mother's current pregnancy. "But I can't regret it. Improper or not, you must see that you are mine now, and I will be claiming you before God and man,"

Mary's feminist ideals flared and bristled at Carson's hopelessly Victorian ideologies. "I am not a piece of chattel—"

He cut her off with a kiss. "We must go to Gretna, immediately. How far along do you think you are?"

Mary instantly replied with the air of someone who had been counting and re-counting her dates obsessively. "Four months," she conceded.

"Four months! And you didn't think to mention it to me?" He thought of their daily rendezvouses and if her behaviour had been any different, perhaps a clue to her secret. But it had not. The news of the blasted Mr. Pamuk had been the first, the last, the catalyst of the secret that she had revealed. "How would you have passed that baby off as Pamuk's? Four months premature?! You should have come to me! I do know something of these matters—more than a foolish girl—" he huffed, not wanting to betray the confidences of his past life. His past marriage, her death in childbed, his devastation. The babe would had been raised by a madam in a distant village, now a man grown. Secrets. Foolish as he was, he had never revealed these details of his past to Mary. He had wanted her to assume that, like her, that none had gone before her, that she was the only girl in the world to him. There could be no whiff of scandal attached to his past life like that invalid, Bates. Besides all that, this was his chance, his last chance, to experience love again, to raise a family. To have a woman to come home to every night.

Their loving trysts had reinvigorated his senses; made him feel like a twenty-year-old again, young and full of promise. Had he known that their frequent couplings would result in a pregnancy? He'd have been a fool indeed to have been ignorant to it, but it was all too easy to get trapped in the heat of the moment, to enjoy each day with no regard for the future. With Mary, her mixture of naivety and enthusiasm was so singularly enchanting that he savoured the opportunity to be the leader, the educator, the veteran, while she shivered and moaned beneath him. The last six months had given him a new purpose to life; had enhanced his professional capability as he had new, entirely selfish reasons to pinpoint the exact location of every member of the household at any given moment, day or night. At dinner, he enjoyed watching the family with secret inner reflections of their earlier encounters. Although Lord Crawley had always acted most satisfied with his choice of wife, in Mary Carson perceived all of the beauty and intellect of Lady Crawley with none of the American crassness.

He was jolted from his thoughts by the gentle, almost imperceptible, sound of a door closing. Too long, he realised suddenly, they had been in the library for far too long, with no regard for any other being. Mary's terrified eyes met his own.

"It can't have been Papa—he would have confronted us. Who, then? And what had they heard?" She gasped. Carson nodded grimly, and set off down the hall in pursuit. It didn't take long.

With his injured leg, Bates was entirely incapable of making a quick escape.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, Carson lay awake—and alone—in his bachelor's bed. He was exhausted, from his sleepless night the night before, from the confrontation with Mary, but now he could not sleep. He thought of Mary, in her room distraught, but he had never dared to visit her there, and she had not come to him for solace. Whenever he closed his eyes, visions of Mary, vulnerable and alone consumed him; just as, in the past, when he tried to sleep his mind had been so full of violent fantasies of Mary, laying naked and submissive underneath him, he had not been able to sleep until he had spent himself. This time, there was no prospect of any relief. The only relief from the situation that he found himself in would be to flee; to leave Downton forever, his good name intact. But his gallantry rendered that impossible.

Despite the physical intimacy between Charles and Mary; they never spent any substantial part of their time together talking. Though Carson, like any man, undoubtedly enjoyed the animal force which drove them to their passionate embraces, he sometimes had yearned to speak to Mary about his tender feelings for her. Mary, young and full of heady passion, wanted a Carson who was skillful enough to make her shiver and moan as they sought their pleasure fleetingly in the gardens of the estate; in his chambers; in a deserted drawing room in the middle of the night. Charles, far removed from his first flush of youth, would have liked to confess his deep love for Mary, which outstripped the lust of the darling buds of May. He had wanted to tell Mary that he had always loved her; to kiss her gently on her forehead, to write lines of poetry for her, to enjoy a slow waltz. But Mary had wanted none of this, and shied away from conversation. She wanted to be driven into a frenzy, to have Carson mount her like a rampant stallion, to be teased and tantalized. She wanted none of the gentle, courtly love that he had to offer.

In this, Carson supposed, their age difference seemed unbreachable. Carson longed for a wife, and family. Though it was inescapable that he found her youth and enthusiasm irresistible, he yearned for something deeper. He had known true love once before, and had lost it. Now, the fear of losing both lover and child rendered sleep impossible. The moral conflict that existed within Carson polarised him; split him in the middle like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As a servant of the family, he was ashamed that he had claimed Lady Mary's maidenhead, had cheated some shadowy, aristocratic future husband out of the prize that was rightfully his. He had fallen into sin, and betrayed his master in a matter which seemed worse than Judas. Yet, here was a woman that he had lain with and loved, pregnant with his child. He imagined holding Mary in his arms as she suckled a babe with a screwed up face and fingers like little shells; kissing the infant's forehead as he tucked it safely into its cradle. They may have been no more than impossible dreams; but it was undeniable that they were more realistic tonight, after Mary's revelation, than they had been even the day before.

He had been forced to relay much of the story to Bates, but had lingering fears about his confidentiality. Though he was an honourable man, Bates was Crawley's valet. He held Crawley's ear in a way that even Carson lacked. Bates made it obvious that he despised Carson's immorality with Mary. Carson was not ignorant of sweet Anna's love for Bates, nor the fact that Bates, for unknown reasons, steadfastly refused her advanced and intimations. Carson had professed his love for Mary to Bates, as well as their intentions to marry. Daring, certainly, but Carson had not been entirely sure of how much that Bates had overheard. He knew that Bates was not unfamiliar of the rumour of Lady Mary and Mr. Pamuk, and hoped that Bates would assume that Carson was valiantly volunteering to safeguard Mary's reputation after her disgrace with the Turk.

He had pled for Bates' silence on the matter; had intimated that Carson's own position might soon be might be made available for Bates. He had no fear of Bates disclosing the matter to Anna, for her loyalties always belonged, first and foremost, to Mary. No doubt, Anna's keen eyes as she dressed Mary daily would have noticed what Carson himself had not. Perhaps she attributed their cause to Matthew. Either way, he just needed a few weeks to make the necessary arrangements; before he fled with Mary, perhaps a reluctant, afraid Mary, but Mary all the same. To Scotland. To safety.


	3. Chapter 3

The doubts that Mary secretly harboured seemed to manifest themselves more and more as she packed her reticule on a chilly Tuesday pre-dawn. She could foresee the life which lay ahead of her—not only the shackles of motherhood, and marriage, but also a life of being ridiculed; of being the source of local gossip and indignity whenever she entered the parish church. Her prospects—of bring an heiress, of marrying for money, for being admired at balls, for travelling abroad—were dashed beyond repair. She was not ready. She was not ready. Did she love Carson—Charles as she forced herself to think of him now—enough to give up her world for him? Did she love an unborn bastard from an illicit union enough to give up all of this? Her mother had so readily accepted the news of the Turk; had complied in covering up her shame; had concealed the secret from her father. Surely she would do the same now? Send Mary abroad for her confinement, pay for the child to be raised overseas, or sent to a poor house, and then accept her back at Downton as if it had never happened? Of course, an overzealous man might spy the marks of a former pregnancy upon her, but perhaps a naïve eighteen-year-old might be too ignorant of the ways of the world to notice, or an elderly gentleman like Strallen might be too proud of his young prize to care—either way, she could still be accepted by society, and have money, plenty of money. Even cousin Matthew might do—he was ever ignorant of the touch of a woman.

Resolved, Mary set down her case, and picked up a fountain pen to compose a message to Carson.

Bates stared incredulously at Carson.

"Have you run mad, man? Begging your pardon, but you cannot force a woman—regardless of class—to marry you if she is unwilling!" Bates put his hand on Carson's shoulder, certain that his supervisor had lost control of his faculties.

Carson jerked away from his touch. "Hardly mad. She gave her word. She—"

Bates interrupted. "I'm not a fool, man. Anna had told me that her Lady had not had her courses for several months. She has been sneaking out of her chamber, and returning in a state of disarray. We didn't presume to know what man she had been seeing, of course. But with what you've told me, and what I already knew, I can fill in the blanks. Lady Mary is expecting your child—you're the one—"

Carson cleared this throat. Instinctively, he wanted to reprimand him, remind him of his position, but he needed Bates as an ally, not an enemy. Reluctantly, he nodded. "I am loathe to confess it, but 'tis true. You must see the urgency, man. I cannot have my son borne a bastard,"

"And you didn't, erm, contemplate that risk before now?" Bates eyes had lost their sympathy, and Carson knew he was on dangerous ground. "What do you expect _me_ to do, to fix this mess? If the lady won't resign herself to a life of amiable domesticity in the village?" He queried.

Carson outlined the plan. He had not had thirty years' experience in service out of sheer dumb luck. He was cunning; he was strategic. With his hazy fantasy of a domestic life in the village thwarted, he had formulated a new plan. Mary could still travel to Scotland, accompanied by Anna. Carson would follow independently, with a feeble excuse. They would wed, in secret, then return to Downton. Anna would find a young local girl who could pass the baby off as her own, when it was born, where it would be convenient for Carson to visit the babe in secret. A wet nurse would be employed, who would pose as the girl's own mother. Rumours would circulate, of course, that Carson was courting a floozy in the village, that the babe was Carson's own illegitimate child, but Mary would be above suspicion. Then, Mary could outwardly live as a spinster, while secretly married to Carson. She could resume her life as the well-loved Earl of Grantham for a few more years. When the time was right, when Mary matured into womanhood, Carson felt sure that Mary would break the news of their marriage and acknowledge the child as her own. A few more years, Carson reflected, of privilege and society, would allay Mary of her fears of usurping her position in society. The real danger would be in disguising Mary's pregnancy as she continued to live with her family. They desperately needed Anna's assistance. For now, Carson recognised that his most pressing challenge would be to get Mary to consent to marriage; to have her safely wed to him. That way, if her condition was discovered, and he had made her his wife, no one could do other than accept it.

In a way, Carson was relieved that it had been Bates who had discovered them, who had been brought into this scheme. With Bates came Anna; a powerful ally. Bates would not demand a bribe, and once complicit in the plan, would not be at all likely to reveal it to Crawley due to his own complicity.

"I will broach it with Lady Mary now. Will you speak to Anna?"

Bates sighed, then nodded. What choice did he have?


	4. Chapter 4

Mary was much more amenable to the updated plan. She would marry Carson, yes, but not have to live with him in some dreary impoverished house. The baby would be taken care of, with Carson's money, and Carson would play the doting Papa if he desired. Carson's Victorian notions of morality would be assuaged, and Mary would not be disgraced. She was not so scrupulous to be averse to a well-timed proposal from another man, should the opportunity arise and the money and status were right. So long as the marriage to Carson was sufficiently secret, which Anna assured her that it would be. There was technically a twenty-one-day residence requirement in Scotland to be married; however clever Carson had found a way to get around that by travelling early, taking lodgings, and secretly returning to Downton.

Their travelling party extended to include Sybil, and Branson as chauffeur, which made Mary uneasy. It was imperative that the whole thing appear a sort of jolly holiday. The presence of Carson was the hardest to arrange. Her sister, her maid, the family driver, were all innocuous enough, but Downton's Head Butler? In the end, it was arranged that Carson would travel independently, the day before the wedding, on the thin pretext of needing to hear the reading of a will of a distant family member. Anna, Sybil, and Branson; who had been visiting the Hills District, would be as near the Borderlands as they could manage. Anna and Mary would travel to Gretna on the morning of the ceremony to meet Carson, travelling in secret. It was enormously risky, Mary knew it, but Carson was insistent that the wedding occurred, or he would feel the need to disclose his sins to her father.

In her heart, Mary had few qualms. In the weeks since his discovery of her condition, he had been devoted to arranging this marriage; of ensuring her every comfort. Regrettably, he had refused union with her since he had learned of the news, but the sacrifice was almost worth it to see his growing paternalism. He would lie next to her, and rub her ankles, or bury his head in the soft bulge of her stomach. He spoke, enraptured, of the babes that would be yet to come, of a simple life growing their own vegetables and hunting on stout cobs with the farmers. It was nonsense; of course, but it was dangerous nonsense, that made Mary almost long for the domestic pleasures that Carson described in his dignified, baritone tones. He seemed to lose some of his rigid imperiousness, to act like a schoolboy falling in love for the first time. Mary, overwhelmed with new hormones, became each day more and more like a house cow, absorbed with the impending prospect of motherhood which was hurtling towards her like a freight train.

Amazingly, the plan was carried out without a hitch. It was all too easy for Mary and Anna to send a letter from Scotland, giving the excuse of visiting an old acquaintance, and for them to slip swiftly to Gretna. There, at the forge, Mary and Carson exchanged perfunctory vows before Anna and two strangers as witnesses. Carson was ecstatic, in his own dignified way. He could have passed as a thirty-five-year-old, heading to the altar for the first time. Mary looked, as she was, a terrified bride; terrified not of the wedding night ahead of her, but of the risk of being discovered, fear that it could ultimately cost her everything.

That night, Carson had to put aside his inhibitions and make love to her, to consummate the marriage and ensure that annulment was not a possibility, even for the powerful Crawley family. In the hired lodging, he gently nipped at the nape of her neck as she writhed beneath him.

"Oh, Mary," he breathed, entirely overcome with emotion. He wished that they could stay, tucked away in the rural country lodging, with no duties or judgement, forever. Mary looked up at Carson; lovely, familiar Carson, and realised that she now possessed a part of Downton forever, regardless of who was the heir, or where she would go. At that moment, she felt a sudden peace flood over her, and a deep wash of love for Carson for the first time. This, she supposed, was the impetus which had driven her into the arms of a man thirty-five years her senior. He had been part of Downton long before she, and was respected—and sometimes feared—by all. That he should now be Mary's master, in light of the vast difference in social status, was benignly amusing. But love knew no boundaries, and God would not care that Mary had beneath her class.

"Charles?" She pronounced his Christian name almost lazily. "Do you think it is a boy, or a girl?"

Charles squinted at her slightly in the half-light, bemused by her first use of his name.

"Does it matter, wife?" He queried indulgently.

Mary frowned. "Well, does a boy stand to inherit the estate?"

Carson had never considered it. "Well, we'd have to consult a solicitor…Is that really what you want? To rob Matthew Crawley of his inheritance?"

Mary scowled.

"If it were to keep Downton, I'd do anything—"

Carson shook his head. "I believe that under the primogeniture system, the title cannot be passed to a daughter's son…"

Indignant, Mary pulled herself up. "I can't believe that you're taking his side!"

Carson laughed. "If I didn't know better, I'd have though that you'd been planning this, my love,"

"Certainly not—this was entirely an unexpected eventuality. But all the same…" Her voice trailed off, wistfully, but the prospect remained, and she was pleased.


End file.
